his brothers, sometimes; Parlo usually. Checking up. Then, when he did come by, Anton, sometimes he’d ignore me, part of the furniture, sometimes not.’
Smoke lingered at the corners of her mouth.
‘One of those times, I got careless.’ She smiled a rueful smile. ‘Got myself knocked up. Okay, I thought, stupid cow. Termination. Not the first time, likely not the last. Made the mistake of saying something and it got back to him. And, course, when he learns it’s a boy, he’s bloody beside himself. Next thing you know he’s waving flowers, making promises, threatening what he’ll do if I abort his child. Sets me up in a flat he’s got in Pimlico and insists on this gynaecologist with umpteen letters after his name and fingers like spiders. Soon as Danny’s born and we’re out of hospital, he takes us into this place of his outside London. Down in Surrey. Like a bloody mansion, i’n it? Swimming pool, Jacuzzis, the whole bit. Woods all around.’
She set down her cigarette, sipped some wine.
‘So there we are, we’re living together, right? Two, three months it’s like fucking paradise. Then he starts getting bored, you can tell. Bored with me, bored with the kid. Half the time now he’s not there, and when he does come home, four in the fucking morning, I can smell these other women all over him. First I tell myself I don’t care, but then I realise all I am’s a fucking nursemaid and housekeeper, so I try and have it out with him and he loses it, each time I try and talk to him about it, he loses it …’
‘He hits you.’
‘He loses it and wants to throw me out, but there’s Danny, and by this time he’s crawling around, bumping into things, breaking things. In the end he suggests I go and look after this place in Finsbury Park, take Danny with me till he can go to nursery. For a time, this is fine. Finsbury Park’s a dump, the house is filthy, falling apart. But at least it’s calmer. Anton’s — well, Anton’s being really nice again. Charming.
‘Then things start to go wrong. I don’t know the ins and outs, so don’t ask, never did. Some kind of dispute, that’s all I know. Business. Anton and me, we have this furious row. So bad, I’m frightened — for the first time, truly frightened. I lost it, totally lost it and did a runner, an’ he sent some of his people after me. Dragged me back.’
She looked away.
‘What happened then weren’t pretty. And then, a few days later, it’s all calmed down again. But tense. Something’s changed. Happened. Not with us. Outside. I don’t know what. But it’s like he’s expecting trouble. Take Danny and keep him safe, he tells me, out of the way. His brother, Taras, he’s bought this hotel in the Lakes, some kind of investment. Go up there for a bit, he says, help Taras, lay low till this trouble gets sorted.’ A lazy shrug of the shoulders. ‘You know the rest.’
When the phone went, they both jumped.
Letitia picked it up.
No trace of an accent, the voice was English, harsh and clear.
‘Off the road that goes north out of the town through St Helen’s. There’s a caravan site on your right, this side of the railway tunnel. Just past the edge of the woods. Tomorrow morning, be there, ten sharp. You and the boy.’
30
A few of the caravans looked as if they might be lived in year round, though signs of occupancy were few. Most stood empty, waiting for summer residents, short-term rentals, six hundred a week for a twin berth and counting. Along one side, a phalanx of empty concrete stands, weeds starting to push through, cracks appearing. Before the season there’d be a lick of paint, a few flowering shrubs, a stiff broom; the kiosk that now stood empty, partly boarded over, would be back in business, selling milk and bread, Calor gas, cereals, cheap DVDs and morning papers.
Off to one side, someone had been dismantling an old trailer, wheels and planks of splintered wood, the chassis bare and rusted over. Metal glinted for a moment in a sudden shaft of sun, bright through lowering skies.
Jack Kiley had called back first thing.
Anton Kosach was currently under investigation for his possible participation in money laundering. He was also suspected of involvement in people trafficking, prostitution and the illegal import and sale of arms. The works.
He had been targeted, questioned, never charged.
‘Nice guy,’ Kiley had remarked.
Cordon looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes shy of ten. The local east-west train disappeared into the tunnel on its way towards Warrior Square. Behind him, the trees at the wood’s edge leaned in together, tall and mostly bare. Dust kicked up as he walked and left a grey film across his shoes.
Crouching down towards the dismembered trailer, he selected a length of rusted iron and backed away towards the space between two empty caravans.
Minutes later, a car slowed and, without indicating, turned into the yard. A silver Merc with alloy wheels. No subtlety here.
Engine switched off, the driver sat for several moments before swinging his legs round and climbing out, the click of the car door behind him soft and precise. Broad shouldered, not tall, he was wearing a blue Nike zip-up jacket with loose-fitting black trousers, leather shoes. Late thirties, Cordon guessed, early forties, just starting to go to seed.
As he watched, the man double-checked his watch, lowered the zip on his jacket midway down.
Iron held down flat against his thigh, Cordon stepped into sight.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘Never mind.’
‘Where’s the woman? The boy?’
‘They’re not coming.’
‘They better fuckin’ be. S’posed to be here now.’
His face was flushed, cheeks swelling out.
Cordon walked towards him, taking his time. ‘You’re not listening,’ he said.
‘Don’t give me fuckin’ listening. You call ’em, get ’em here, or fuckin’ else.’
Cordon shook his head, the brittle edges of the iron biting into his hand.
Angling his head to one side, the man hawked phlegm and spat at the ground, then, as if making a decision, he arched suddenly forward, reaching round to the back of his jacket as if he might be going for a gun.
The one chance, likely the only one he was going to get, Cordon hit him with a fast swing, smack against the underside of the elbow with a crack that made him scream.
‘You bastard! You broke my fuckin’ arm.’
In for a penny, Cordon hit him again, the knee this time, and the man went down in a sprawling heap. Cordon pressed his foot down hard against the damaged leg and pulled the pistol from where it had been resting against the small of the man’s back. One click and he pocketed the magazine. The gun he hurled away as far as he could.
‘You’ll live to fuckin’ regret this.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
Cordon rested the rusted end of iron against the man’s sweated forehead, oblivious to the pain in his eyes.
‘A message for Anton …’
‘I don’t know no fucking Anton.’
‘Then whoever sent you on his behalf. Steer clear. The woman and the boy. Well clear. This isn’t the way.’
Stepping quickly round him, Cordon freed the keys from where they’d been left in the Merc and launched them in a high, steepling arc, deep into the woods.
‘Bastard!’ the man shouted. ‘You’re gonna fuckin’ pay for this. Fuckin’ pay.’
